


tenderly, like something that he loves

by hazy_daisy



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, geralt’s emotionally constipated but hey: what’s new, incoherent rambling about jaskier’s hands, it's properly capitalized i promise i was just lazy when i wrote that summary, post-one-in-the-morning writing, reflections on the way that jaskier is, use of the word tender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:28:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23558380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazy_daisy/pseuds/hazy_daisy
Summary: geralt reflects on jaskier’s hands, jaskier’s strength, the way that jaskier treats things he loves; the way that jaskier treats him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 115





	tenderly, like something that he loves

**Author's Note:**

> is any of this coherent? no. and that’s okay.

Jaskier’s hands are more of a fixture in Geralt’s life than he’d like them to be. 

Somehow, Jaskier finds a way to get his hands on absolutely everything—food, instruments, people. It’s his hands that make him money, that coax music from his instrument, that write down lyrics. It’s his hands, really, that he uses to examine Geralt when he returns from a hunt, bloody and disgusting but still standing, darting from place to place with feather-light touches as if he’s seeing with his hands as much as his eyes, as if he trusts touch to tell him that Geralt’s alright more than just vision. It’s his hands that pull Geralt away, to a bath, to wash away the muck and the grime and the blood and intestines that aren’t his own. 

It’s a gentle pressure, that Jaskier puts on him, when he does that; coaxing, gentle. There’s a care in his touch that Geralt does his best not to examine. 

It’s a little thing, really, that Geralt notices. Jaskier’s fingers are strong, noticeably so, as they card through his hair and press against his skin to wash the blood away. 

It conflicts with the image of Jaskier, slight and airy, that Geralt has in his head, but at the same time... well. He might not admit it, even to himself, but there’s a strength to Jaskier—in the determined way he speaks, in his persistence to keep singing, in his relentless optimism. Geralt is not enough of a fool to ignore that. 

It’s admirable, honestly. The way that Jaskier carries on with things, continues to sing even after his songs get food thrown at him, continues to follow Geralt even after everything that he’s said and done. He wonders if there’s a breaking point. He doesn’t really want to know. As much as he gripes about Jaskier’s presence, it’s... well. He hasn’t had persistent company in years. The thing is that he’s terrified, somewhere deep down, of something happening to Jaskier, who is strong in subtle ways but not in the ways that Geralt is, the ways that matter when you’re traveling looking for monsters to kill, the ways that matter when you’re constantly in danger. He likes having Jaskier around; but he’ll never admit it out loud, because he’s scared for Jaskier’s sake, which he’ll never admit even to himself. 

There’s a simple explanation for the lithe strength of Jaskier’s fingers. He’s a musician. He’s spent years and years pressing down strings, building up calluses and nimble dexterity that at once contradict and communicate with one another. Like a thief’s hands, but for stealing hearts, rather than gold. 

‘Stealing hearts’. The thought’s a bit more poetic than he’d like. Poetry is about the last thing he needs cluttering up his brain. Jaskier is rubbing off on him more than he expects, but isn’t that always the way? Jaskier falls back into step next to him, after weeks or months away, and starts talking again, and suddenly Geralt’s whole life twists to accommodate extra nights at inns, stops in at taverns where there’s music and laughter rather than thinly veiled hostility, relentless upbeat commentary from the songbird who insists on following him. Everything changes when Jaskier arrives, like spring breezes after a lifetime of winter. The seasons turn. The world comes back into tune. Quite literally. 

Jaskier being an instrumentalist also explains the tenderness with which he does things, Geralt thinks. Not all things, obviously, but when he tunes his lute, plucks at strings to test the sound, picks out melodies on long walks; those movements are gentle, as if he’s caressing the instrument. It’s the same feeling when Jaskier runs a hand over Roach’s nose, or feeds her an apple—gentle, controlled. Strength working with agility to create a dexterous, poetic movement. 

The point, which Geralt eventually does circle back around to, is that he thinks Jaskier treats him the same way, washes guts out of his hair with the same concentration and care that he uses when he’s cleaning his lute, rubs oil onto his skin as if he’s something beautiful, worthy of upkeep, worthy of gentle treatment. 

The result of all of that, in the very end, is that Jaskier treats him tenderly, like something that he loves. He keeps coming back, insists on staying, insists on being with Geralt, even after all that he’s seen. And Geralt’s not exactly sure what to do with that information. 

**Author's Note:**

> yo here’s the deal: i wrote this on impulse at 1 in the morning. might rewrite it later, who knows; i feel like i’m onto something here but it might take,,, actually being awake,,, to do anything with it. 
> 
> check out my other witcher fics on my profile, that (mostly) aren’t post-midnight incoherent rambling


End file.
